Seducing Mr. Heywood (4 page)

It struck him how much they favored their beautiful mother in looks. They were both fair and handsome, with Sophia’s unusual blue eyes. The Rowleys, judging from the many ancestral portraits hanging in the Long Gallery at the Hall, were a dark-haired, dark-eyed lot. It was a kindness to call them average in appearance, for there was a conspicuous dearth of beauty in that family. Old George had chosen well when he’d selected Sophia for his bride; she’d given him two fine-looking sons.

And then she had deserted them.

Charles was unable to comprehend the selfish behavior of
ton
females. His family was much less sophisticated,
and rarely visited the capitol city of London. His sisters treasured their children and were never willingly separated from them for any length of time. But, according to the village gossip brought to him daily, whether he wanted it or not, by Mrs. Chipcheese, his housekeeper, Lady Sophia had quit Rowley Hall less than two years after William’s birth, returning only for brief visits when they were younger. The boys had been raised by George and a series of governesses. For a time, George’s elder sister had resided with them and was a surrogate for their mother until her death.

Oh, but how had thoughts of the enticing Lady Sophia once again slipped past his defenses? Here he was, enjoying the day, the walk, and the expansive green miles, and that lady had once more penetrated his consciousness. He made a swift decision; he must endeavor to see her again and discuss the boys and his guardianship of them. He wanted to let her know that he was not about to usurp her position as the boys’ mother, and that he’d been as surprised as anyone when the baron’s will was read and named him guardian.

The law was clear on that point, a male guardian (preferably a blood relation) was required. Old George had no relatives, so there was no one of blood to contest his last decision. And females, unfortunately, even mothers, had few legal rights in Britain. That disturbed Charles, even as he conceded that Lady Sophia had been a negligent, uncaring mother to her boys these last several years. But what had George meant to convey by naming him, the lowly local vicar? Was there no suitable male relation of Sophia’s, someone with closer family ties? Charles wished that there had been a modicum of discussion amongst the three of them before George had written that blasted last will and testament. He could not blame Lady Sophia for resenting him. He seemed a usurper even to himself. Truly, there were a number of things he had to set right with the baron’s widow.

Sophia was enjoying her walk immensely. She’d grown up in Kent, a county of manicured natural beauty in the
south of England, an area quite different from the wild Yorkshire moors. As a child, though she was a quick and eager student, she’d much preferred the outdoors to the classroom. Her governess, Miss Bane…Oh, how long it had been since she’d thought of that loving woman, who had been with her since the untimely death of her young mother. Miss Bane had been more than a governess, more than a servant. Miss Bane—

A rush of unpleasant memories crowded Sophia’s mental processes. She had been very good at banishing the unpleasant to the deepest recesses of her mind. Miss Bane’s memory brought too much pain. She stopped walking, leaned back against a tree, and took several quick breaths. Her father…No, that way only more pain lay; she would not surrender to it. She cleared her head of the cobwebs threatening to take up residence there, moved away from the tree, and continued her walk, trying to conjure up more pleasant notions. Or, safest of all, to refrain from thinking at all.

She was also beginning to regret her reaction to The Scene between her and the young vicar. She had overreacted terribly. ’Twas not as if he were the only male who had ever flung himself upon her. She could very well have killed the man, pushing him away so violently! A soft giggle escaped her. He had to be mortified, truly. No wonder he had not returned. She was the one who should smooth over the incident.

She and Mr. Heywood were fated to deal with each other; that was an inescapable fact, and that embarrassing incident had to be set to rest. Her turbulent inner feelings could not be allowed to rule her life. She’d made a terrible mistake with Sir Isaac, allowing feelings and dreams of a different kind of life to fling her into wild, uncontrolled emotion. She’d never done that before and look where it had gotten her! She would be cool, unruffled, the ice goddess everyone thought her to be.

There was a good deal of sorting out to be done. Her life must be put in order. Without order and purpose, she would shrivel and die. She was Lady Sophia Rowley! She must remember that. Ah, when had life become so
complicated? She must take one step at a time, as she was doing now, on this woodland path. She trod on, striding forward with new purpose and determination, each well-placed step reinforcing her new determination.

Charles looked over a slight rise and beheld a rich tapestry of wild flowers carpeting the earth. Yellows, pinks, blues, all the colors of the rainbow jostled for position as he observed nature’s bounty. So short-lived, these flowers growing in the wild, uncultivated by the hand of man, yet so lovely, such a feast for the eyes. Nature contented and comforted him, as it did his favorite poets. Finding a rock upon which to perch, he took out the slim volume of Wordsworth and began to read aloud his favorite poems, poems that recollected his youth in the Lake District, where the great poet was born and still resided.

The bobbing white scuts of a family of rabbits darted out of Sophia’s path through a swathe of newly emerging bracken. Above her head, a short-eared owl was hunting voles for its breakfast, looking huge and fearsome, not unlike a great gray moth as it swooped low over the moorland. There was more variety in the groupings of trees as Sophia neared the outskirts of Rowley village: rowans, birches, larches, dwarf willows, Scots pines. Underneath the willows, Sophia glimpsed the flickering forms of black grouse, with their red-wattled eyes and lyre-shaped tails.

As a child, Sophia had once witnessed the mating ritual of these creatures. She had gazed openmouthed as the male birds faced each other and uttered strange bubbling sounds interspersed with loud shrieks. She had
been delighted to see the drab brown females strutting between the victorious males (some of whom had battled more than one rival), selecting their mates for the season.

So had Sophia selected her lovers, she reflected; she’d once relished the sight of men bickering for her favors. There’d almost been a duel fought for those favors, in one disturbing instance. A pair of besotted young Corinthians had nearly tasted grass for breakfast because of her. She was not proud of the incident. She’d prevailed upon her male acquaintances to intercede before the hotheads could inflict serious damage upon each other. It had been flattering, at first, when she’d heard of it, but upon sober reflection, she had been appalled. She had hardly known the young men!

Her female friends, coldhearted wretches all, had chided her for being so soft as to show concern over two silly, unimportant young men, but even she, the renowned ice goddess who supposedly expressed no feelings, could not have borne such a horror on her conscience. She was truly taken aback by these women, who cared nothing for the lives of men dueling to the death in hopes of gaining their favors.

She appreciated good-looking young men too much to see them senselessly destroy themselves, she told these women, her gay laughter belying her inner feelings. Slowly, she began to disengage from their company; she had not missed them one whit. The satisfied recollection of jettisoning their unwelcome acquaintance warmed her now, further loosening the icy grip that surrounded her heart.

Sophia smiled, as if glad for perhaps the first time to be removed from the shallow, heartless society of the
beau monde.
She should commune with nature more often, she thought. In London, she had rarely been out and about so early in the day. Late evenings resulted in late risings the next day. She felt suddenly invigorated, the combination of her thoughts and the lovely day perhaps working some magic on her. As she rounded a bend in the path beside a slope of heathery grasses, she heard
a sound and stopped, frowning. Someone was declaiming aloud in these woods.

She paused to listen, not quite believing her ears. A man’s light, pleasing voice, mellifluous in tone, projected beautifully through the empty stretch of woodland. It was poetry. Sophia concentrated on the words and rhythm. Wordsworth. The romantic poet of the Lake Country. She loved his poems; they were from the heart. Standing in the middle of the path, she closed her eyes, enjoying this unexpected treat.

Sophia felt her heart lift, straining the bonds of the ice that still held it fast, as she imagined the flash of jonquil-yellow on the green grass of Cumbria, bright patches of blooming flowers dancing beside the hills and deep in the valleys. She had never been to the Lake Country, but the poet’s well-formed word-pictures took her there now. She breathed deeply, feeling at peace.

She had to see who was reciting “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud” in her woods. Who was this person so at home with nature and beautiful words? Cautiously, she edged further along the path, keeping to the tall trees on one side. He was not finished; he had begun to recite another poem. It was a very short one and another favorite of hers.

How lovely! She could listen to that light but sonorous voice forever. It stirred her deeply. Sophia had often sought refuge in books when she was a young girl. Her later life had not centered around London’s literary set, but Hatchards bookstore held her standing order for poetical works. It was not something any of her acquaintances knew about Lady Sophia, but poetry filled a need in her life, a need she could not articulate.

She wanted to identify the speaker. Craning her neck and peering ahead, she glimpsed a young man sitting on a rock, walking stick beside him, a slim book in his hands. The vicar! She drew back in surprise, almost stumbling on loose rocks. She should have guessed. Joan had said that his sermons were lovely, that his beautiful voice warmed the heart. The vicar! The last person she wanted to see…but, ah, that mesmerizing voice…consummate irony! She turned away; he must not see her lurking nearby. She turned, flushing a lackadaisical young roebuck, whose ivory-colored antlers flashed as he suddenly reared in alarm.
“Oh!”
she cried, stumbling and falling backward clumsily on the grass.

What the…!
Charles’s ears perked up at the sudden cry. He heard a crashing sound in the dense underbrush, and, throwing down his book, raced towards the noise. Was someone hurt? There were no man-traps in these woods—the baron had outlawed these deadly devices from his lands—but a poacher could have set a trap for small game and trapped a person, instead.

There was a woman lying in the middle of the path that led to Rowley Hall, gasping, the breath knocked out of her.
Oh, no, not again!
Lady Sophia, on her delectable bottom, long legs splayed. Charles groaned and raised his eyes heavenward.
Why me, Lord? Why me? Why this, why now?

This time, however, his conscience was clear;
he
had
not brought the lady down. No, he could spy an innocent roe deer, a buck, scarce bigger than a large dog, summer coat of foxy-red a bright blur against dark brown tree bark, making swift tracks through the deeply tangled, almost impenetrable brush as if the very hounds of hell were at his hooves.

Charles could sympathize with the beast. The lady had a unique way of scaring the life out of one. He absent-mindedly rubbed the back of his head, no longer bearing a lump, but still sensitive to the touch.

This is absurd!
Sophia thought. Charles reached for her hands to pull her to her feet.
Am I forever fated to be horizontal whenever I am in the vicinity of this handsome young man
, she wondered? Then she began to giggle.
Oh
, she thought,
oh, I have been too, too long without a lover!

“Lady Rowley?” The vicar frowned, wondering at the fit of laughter that emanated from the baron’s beautiful widow.

“Yes, Mr. Heywood, I am fine. Thank you for your assistance.” She took a handkerchief out of her netted reticule and dabbed at her eyes.

“Are you sure you are all right, my lady?” the gentleman persisted.

Sophia looked into the concerned gray eyes of the vicar of Rowley village. They were almost the same height, so her gaze was on a nearly direct line with his. “I am perfectly all right, sir, but…but…we must stop meeting like this.” Again the giggles erupted, and she brought her handkerchief to her mouth to stifle them.

Charles thought he should introduce Lady Sophia to Lewis Alcott, as they both seemed to enjoy a good laugh at his expense. What was so amusing? He was disconcerted and tongue-tied, not knowing what to say or do.

“Would you like me to accompany you, my lady, to your destination? These woodland paths tend to be rocky. Perhaps you would like to take my arm?” he offered.

“Why, yes, of course, sir, thank you. I am on my way to the graveyard, to have a few words with my late husband.
George has a great deal of explaining to do, I fear.” Lady Sophia put her arm in his, noting the shocked look that crossed his face with amusement.